


Deeper Yet

by AraSigyrn



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician), American Idol RPF, Kris Allen (Musician)
Genre: Cock Rings, Community: kink_bingo, Consent Issues, Cyberpunk AU, M/M, Mentions of Violence, Power Imbalance, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-15
Updated: 2012-10-15
Packaged: 2017-11-16 08:20:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/537422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AraSigyrn/pseuds/AraSigyrn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the 'Consent' & 'Wildcard' Squares on my Kink Bingo card</p>
<p>Kris is a Pit-Fighter.  Adam's the new Boss who can think of better things to do with him than just watch him fight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deeper Yet

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to deannawol for being a good sport about beta-ing and the ladies of the Kradam mailing list for cheerleading and sprint-support. ♥

Kris' momma told him once, long ago, that hell was just a story.

"God loves you, Kristopher," she'd said. "Hell's just a story told by old men to scare the kids into growing up right."

Kris had loved his momma but she was a goddamn liar. Hell is real. Hell isn't the old men talking; it's the young men and women and just plain people who die because someone wants them to, while a crowd howls for blood.

Hell is the Pit.

The Pit is the size of the world; at least, it's the size of Kris' world. He's been down in the Pits for more than ten years. He's the oldest of the indentured fighters in the only way that counts; years in the Pit. He's fought for his life six days a week, every week that he could stand. He's had fifteen Bosses on paper alone and a dozen others that didn't last long enough to leave a legal paper trail. Kris has had every bone in his arms, hands, legs and feet broken at least once. His ribs are more Kevlar reinforcement than original bone. The micro-computers wired into his brain and spinal cord boost his reflexes far past their biological limits and the artificial mesh or 'weave' woven into his muscles and bones makes him nearly indestructible. He’s got ten years of owner’s tags inked into his back; the modern day brands of ownership.

Kris hadn’t even been fifteen the first time he killed a man. Not even half-grown, terrified, hungry and wired to the fucking moon on a cocktail of bargain-basement boosters, he'd pulled off the biggest upset in the history of the Pit. Kris hadn't meant to kill the guy. He hadn't even believed he could. Razor had been ten years older than him, a fighter with a star-studded, six year record and a full corporate sponsorship behind him.

His neck had cracked with a sickening noise that Kris had heard over the crowd's roar. It had been a clean break. Razor had been dead before he hit the floor.

A good death, Kris knows now; clean, quick and painless. He's seen much, much worse in the endless years since. Half the fighters in the Pit are here to die - the official figures say that 60% of fighters die in the Pit. Cale heard that in the Ripper Doc's surgery one time and they'd laughed about it later. One in twenty fighters will manage to save up the price of their contract or be the rare fighter that catches a corp suit's eye and gets bought out to a lazy life as a guard-dog.

Kris wants to die in the Pit and prays sometimes, when he can remember the words, that he dies like Razor did, clean and quick. He's seen the old fighters, the ones who never made it out and lasted too long, dying in narrow cots as the new tech killed them.

"Kris?" Danny's voice brings him back to the here and now and Kris shakes away the maudlin mood. "You wanna fight this one?" 

"You're asking?" Kris demands, arching an eyebrow.

"It's volunteers only," Danny shrugs and spits on the chipped concrete floor. Kris doesn't much care for Danny but the man's at least a halfway decent Pit-manager. "Some high-stakes game?"

"And Simon wants me to win him another million?" Kris rolls his eyes but he's already standing up, the floating menu of cyberware flickering green one by one as he starts to prep.

"He doesn't tell me that shit," Danny sniffs. "You in or not?"

"I'm in," Kris nods. High-stakes matches mean tips and a reward if his owner thinks he's done well. Simon is one of the most straightforward Bosses Kris has ever worked for - he doesn't like Kris but he respects that Kris is easily the best fighter in the mixed bag of humanity that Simon owns. If Kris fights well, Simon will reward him.

"Get your ass into the pen," Danny orders and Kris lets the recessed fangs in his upper jaw slide out just enough to show behind his teeth. Danny goes pale and Kris smiles. Danny skips back two whole steps and Kris can see the way his pulse jumps in his throat. Kris turns and walks to the pen.

Danny slams the pen door behind him and Kris hears him cursing under his breath. Kris hates the pen worse than he hates the Pit or the cells. It's a tiny, oppressive cage of wire and Kris smells the sweat of the guy in the opposite cage before his eyes automatically adjust to the dim light.

"Hey," Kris nods to him and sees the guy tense before he nods back.

"Hey, man," he looks older than Kris, tense and jittery in a way that makes Kris think of greenies warming up for their first match. "You the guy I'm fighting?"

"Probably," Kris shrugs. 

"That's a little fucked up," the guy laughs. It's rushed and perfunctory. "You're just going to chat like we aren't going to try kill each other."

"Is it a death match?" Kris asks, mildly curious.

"It's a Pit fight," the guy snaps and _oh_ , okay. Kris can see the tell-tales now he's looking for them. The guy's a suburbanite; one of the amateurs from the rings out on the outskirts of the city. He's a fighter all right but this must be his first time in the Pit. "That's the point of this, isn't it?"

"Nah," Kris shrugs, feeling the tinge as his blood flow quickens and shaking out his arms and legs. "Doesn't have to be like that."

"It doesn't?" The guy presses a little closer to his side of the cage. "Really?" 

"Everyone watching is hoping we'll kill each other," Kris says candidly. "That's just how the Pit works. Unless it's a death match, we don't _have_ to kill each other."

"Seriously?" 

"Sure," Kris says. "Being in the Pit means you don't have much choice in anything but when you do have a choice, you should make it."

"Like not killing you?" 

Kris laughs. "More like you choosing to just roll over rather than making me have to kill you to put you down."

"You got balls, kid," the guy says and Kris smiles.

"Sweet talk ain't gonna save your ass from my kicking, just so you know."

"But if I choose...not to fight?" 

"Y'gotta fight," Kris says firmly. "You can just choose not to fight when it's obvious you aren't going to win. You can choose to give in."

"Huh," the guy drums his fingers on the mesh. "My name's Monte."

"Kris."

"I think I'll choose," Monte's quiet statement is nearly drowned out by the sudden roar and Kris straightens up. "If you will."

There's no time to reply; the pen door is already clicking open and they're spilled out into the brilliant lights of the Pit. 

Kris feels the sting as the sub-dermal needles pierce his veins, pumping in the drugs. Kris feels his heart rate spike, the rush of heat and power that makes him hyperaware of the shift and stretch of his muscles. He feels like he's on the verge of flying into the air with every step. Every shift in the air feels like a touch against his skin. The air stinks of fresh blood and fear and the crowd is baying like a pack of wild animals. 

The world slows, everything around him dragging through the air. Kris rolls smoothly forward and up onto his feet. The crowd greets him with a gleeful howl. He pivots to face Monte, the world slurring and slowing around him as the ref-boosters hit the redline. Kris feels the weight of the metal spurs against his knuckles as he flexes his hands.

Monte turns out to have some solid skills, mostly boxing and judo, if Kris is any judge. He's faster than he looks and he can take a punch. He's good.

Kris is better.

They both know how this is going to end by the end of the first minute but Kris draws it out for nearly nine more minutes before he sends Monte crashing to the bare concrete with an expertly timed leg sweep. He turns it into a spinning kick that drives the breath out of Monte's lungs in a shocked rush. Kris sees the white gleam as Monte's eyes roll back in his head and the buzzer sounds a second later.

There’s a scatter of boos as Kris steps back but most of the crowd is cheering. They know Kris; he’s built his rep as the Boy Scout with the badass skills. Kris' eyes filter out the glare of the Pit lights as he turns, looking for Simon. 

Simon is sitting - standing - at the very edge of the VIP box, frowning blackly down at him. He doesn't look happy.

Kris rolls his shoulders, shrugging off the momentary worry and lets one of the heavily armored handlers guide him to the out-take hatch as the adrenaline bleeds from his system. He's bleeding from a few cunning strikes and one lucky punch but he bounces from foot to foot as the various safety doors cycle.

He finally gets to step into the sterile white light of the Medical Area, six minutes and fifty-one seconds after he left the Pit. The docs are busy behind opaque plastic screens and Kris can see Monte sprawled on a bunk with a nurse bent over him. 

The doc doesn't waste any effort on him; plugging in a bio-scanner and poking perfunctorily at the cuts and grazes still bleeding sluggishly.

"Any dizziness, disorientation or impaired vision?" she asks as she peers at the bio-monitor. "Difficulty breathing? Irregular heart-rate?"

"Nope," Kris says easily.

A small blond with pouting lips comes through the door and they both turn to look at him. He's about Kris' size but moving like the only things under his skin are muscle and bone. He doesn't even seem to notice the way the wounded fighters lift their heads and bare their teeth as he passes. Kris presses a thumb to the tiny bead just over his Adam's apple and the fighters relax, shifting their attention back to their own hurts. The hum is conditioned into the newer fighters - one of the perks of being the top of the pack and being the only fighter who can carry a tune. It's an old trick and one only works after a fight when the aggression is low. 

The doctor is staring down at the guy as Kris swallows away the raspy feeling of overtaxed vocal cords and the buzz from the throat-mike. 

"You got a fucking death wish, blondie?" she demands. 

"I'm looking for Allen," the kid sneers back and Kris rolls his eyes. 

Without turning his head, he can see eighteen lethal weapons on the doc's table that would drop the Pit’s heavyweights – each of whom has two hundred pounds of genetically-engineered muscle and two years fighting on this guy. He doesn't say anything. If the little punk wants to get himself killed, Kris is officially washing his hands. The doc is a contractor; the worst that they'll do is fire her for mouthing off.

"Oh really?" The doc plants her hands on her hips. "And who the fuck are you?" 

"Tommy Ratliff," the blond says. "I work for the new boss."

Silence spreads out from him. Kris' hearing dials up into the amber ranges and he can only barely hear the others breathing over the whoosh of blood through their veins. The punk proves he isn't actively suicidal by going still. He steals wary glances out of the corner of his eyes.

"New boss?" the doc sticks her hands under the nanite spray and the blood dissolves. "Danny's out then?"

"Danny?" the blond says blankly. "No, I don't know any Danny. Simon, Simon's out. Lost the last bet ‘cause he figured Monte was gold." 

"A new owner?" Doc rubs her hands. Kris watches her eye flick and she hums thoughtfully. "Well, there's a thing."

"The Boss wants Allen," the punk says again and the doc turns to look Kris over.

"He got time for a shower?" 

"He wants Allen now," the punk says firmly.

The doc sniffs and tosses Kris a packet of wipes as she taps the code into the tech safe. Kris wipes the blood off his knuckles as the blond huffs.

"Well?" he demands. 

"Won't take more than a minute," the doc pulls out the hobbles, dropping them beside Kris as she closes the safe. "But even if you're stupid enough to try taking a fighter up straight from the Pit, I ain't."

"What are you talking about?" Kris covers his bark of laughter with a fake cough. The blond punk flicks a glance at him. "Is that Allen?"

"Yeah," The doc circles her finger and Kris slides off the table, turning his back to the doc. He keeps the blond in his peripheral, just in case. There's no obvious cyberware but Kris' blood is still fizzing with the need to fight. 

"What are you fucking around with?" The punk steps forward and Kris' head snaps around. The spike of adrenaline makes him go tense and he feels that tension spread out through the other fighters. He feels the click of his fangs descending – marble-alloy and sharp enough to rip a man’s throat. His upper jaw feels heavier with them deployed.

"Easy," the doc digs the pad of her thumb in against the rim of the plug to the left of Kris' spine. She pushes, like she's trying to realign the plugs – or trying to tear them out. Her voice is very nearly even; Kris can just hear the tremor under her words. "Just hold still and you, you damn idiot, don't go provoking them. Do you want to get your throat ripped out?" 

"What?" 

"He's still juiced," the doc snaps irritably. "Unless you're actually stupid enough to think you're more than a bag of guts and meat compared to him, you need to stop making sudden moves."

"Juiced?" the punk swallows. "He's still high?" 

"Yes, he still has drugs in his system," the doc jerks her chin. "He's still sweaty from the fight; the standard cocktail takes four hours to break down naturally."

Kris feels the prick of his fangs against his tongue as her nail scrapes the edge of his plug. It's not enough to be painful but his skin's too sensitive still, all the proof he needs that the fight with Monte hadn't burnt off the drugs the way a longer fight would have. The doc doesn't top him up often and the sub dermal dispensers sitting under his collarbone are empty half the time. He's out of practice dealing with the high. He hasn't felt this coiled, urgent need in a long while and his smile backs the punk up another foot. 

Normally Kris would take the lingering frustration out on the heavy bag. He's not getting that chance. Simon’s seen to that. Stupid fucker. Kris doesn't wonder why their new boss wants him. It doesn't matter.

"-is why you have to be a goddamn moron to want to take him anywhere without a hobble," the doc is still talking to the punk. The hobbles click into his plugs and Kris shivers violently as the doc twists them into place. The world goes a little blurry and red lines appear over the status icons of his anti-personnel cyberware. The thermographic overlay disappears, making the world seem greyer and Kris has to strain to tell the different sweat-reeks apart. The lag as his eyes adjust jumps from picoseconds to milliseconds and Kris feels the tension bunching along his back. "Even if he don't want to start, he's still a kill-first, questions-after kinda guy."

The punk opens his mouth but the doc just keeps on talking. "That's just the way they are. And you’d best stop trying to pretend they aren't fucking dangerous killers."

_Nice to know you care,_ Kris thinks. He doesn't say it, just presses the tender tip of his tongue against his teeth. The fangs are safely locked in their recesses. The pain's already fading. Even the hobble can't overwrite the programming for the nanites that make up most of his bloodstream. It's healed before he's straightened up.

The blond jumps back. Kris can see the thin skin at the base of his neck fluttering wildly. He swallows and his thermograph shows the guy glowing in vibrant orange and reds. Kris steps forward and the guy nearly trips over his feet trying to keep some distance between them. The doc is half-smiling, eyes hard.

"Well, there you go," she says. "Off to the 'boss' with you then."

"Isn't there a set of cuffs or something?" The punk is sweating and Kris steps forward again, sending him dancing backwards. 

"There isn't a set of cuffs in the city that'd hold a Pit fighter," the doc snorts. "He's hobbled. He's as safe as they get. Go on. Get going."

The punk looks at Kris and swallows hard. He edges backwards and Kris follows. The punk keeps backing up until his back hits the wall beside the door. Kris can hear the rustle of blankets and the nearly-silent steps of the fighters coming out to see what's going on.

"Better get the door open," Kris says mildly. The punk's heart-rate tap-dances on the red line and Kris smiles at him. "I can't hold them off with the hobbles on."

The punk - he can't be that much older than Kris - goes grey and fumbles for the lock. He gets the combination right on the third try and the door hisses open. Kris tenses as the hobbles send a warning tingle through his system. It's all part of the conditioning. No Pit Boss wants fighters thinking about escape.

Kris ignores the tingle and follows the punk out. The door seals behind them in a rush of air and Kris hears the hydraulic lock thump into place, shaking the whole corridor. He blinks, allowing his eyes to recalibrate for the dim light and keeps going, following the platinum blond hair through the crowd of cleaners and technicians.

Kris doesn't know any of them but they spread out away from him like a shoal of fish trying to evade a shark. None of them look at him and Kris watches, amused, as the tension pulls the punk's shoulders up towards his ears. Kris keeps a watchful eye on their surroundings. 

The guts of the Pit don't change much. Worn out locks get replaced and they might get new bedclothes over the holidays but the bleak concrete walls with their armor cladding stay the same. Kris knows, from listening to Danny's incessant bitching, that the Pit the punters see gets a facelift every other month. The air stinks of beer and perfume and there’s the warm buttery smell of popcorn.

Most of all, Kris thinks, it stinks of money.

They cross through the hospitality area - concessions for people with too much money and too little soul - and all the guys Kris can see are wearing suits like they were born in them with women who strut across the cheap green flooring like it's a red carpet. They're all relaxed, laughing and chatting casually.

Kris hates every single one of them with all the blood in his heart.

He doesn't make eye-contact, hunches his shoulders and keeps his fingers lightly coiled. The suits are arrogant, not stupid; none of them try to talk to him or the blond kid all but running in front of him. Kris pads along behind him, radiating menace and the pretty, privileged fuck-heads let their one-of-a-kind, designer eyes slide right past him. 

The security guards circling the room are watching. Kris counts six with their holsters unbuttoned and nine with a hand on their gun. Only one, an older woman with naturally grayed hair, just leans against the wall and watches him. Kris meets her eyes and she blinks calmly at him, shoulders loose and arms folded.

Kris half-smiles and she nods, carefully respectful but clearly aware than the pea-shooters her buddies are brandishing wouldn't even slow Kris down. He notes the exit door behind her and smiles. He lets his eyes flick away and the blond leads him back to an elevator bracketed by two of the massive support columns with two black-uniformed security guards carrying assault rifles in front of the door.

Kris lifts his head and narrows his eyes. These aren't the wannabe rent-a-cop plebs circling the concession stand. These guys - _girls_ , he corrects a millisecond later - are professionals. The under barrel grenade launchers still wouldn’t save them if Kris was fighting fit but they'd slow him down.

"Tommy," one of them nods and looks over his shoulder at Kris. "This the package?"

"Yeah," Tommy nods curtly. "He still want it?" 

"As far as I know," the girl smirks. "But it's not my ass if he's changed his mind."

"Fuck you too, sweetheart," Tommy offers her a brittle smile and they sneer at each other.

Kris, mouth firmly closed, wonders who they're playacting for. The scent shifts suggest genuine concern, not phony aggression. The voice stress patterns in both their voices don't work as aggression or dislike. Kris doesn't even need to dial up the specific analytic programs to know that they're faking.

"Get your ass moving," she orders and Kris follows Tommy into the pocket-sized elevator. The stink of fear-sweat makes Kris want to smile but he doesn't even curl his lip. Something else is going on here; something that makes Kris feel like he's fighting blind in a dark Pit with a hundred doped up killers hunting for him.

"The Boss will expect you to be respectful," Tommy says as the doors close. The elevator doesn't move and Kris hears the hum-whirr of the security scan. He doesn't answer. If Tommy's Boss is dumb enough to expect manners from a Pit fighter, that's not Kris' fault. The dipshit can take his chances.

The elevator lurches, enough to rock Tommy off balance. He slaps out a hand to steady himself, his body temp and pulse shooting up. Kris turns his head enough to stare at him. Tommy catches himself before he actually flinches but Kris sees the panic in his eyes. If it were Andrew or Martina or Keiko in the elevator, dumbass punk would be dead already. The fear pheromones prickle along the back of Kris' nose and he has to grit his teeth to keep from lashing out.

There was a time, Kris thinks, when he didn't know what fear smelt like. The Pit changes things. Fear in the Pit is a sign that you're winning. Fear means a chance to win. Li told him once that it took four months in the Pit to learn that smell and less than a week to develop a bone-reaction to it.

Tommy straightens himself and his flashy leather jacket with excessive care. He clears his throat and Kris watches the bob of his Adam apple, idly calculating the exact pressure to rupture it and the right angle to tear the jugular vein. Tommy would be dead in less than a minute, far too fast for his little girlfriends to save him.

"Don't speak unless he gives you permission," Tommy instructs. "Don't address him at all unless he explicitly tells you to. Don't argue. Don't talk back."

Kris rolls his eyes as the elevator light flickers and the motors whirr.

"Also, I'd advise you to drop the word 'no' outta your vocabulary for the next few hours," Tommy's lips slant up into a derisive smirk. "Shouldn't be a problem for a pretty boy like you."

Ah. Kris rolls his eyes again. Because this was what Kris needed, clearly; another holier-than-thou pimp rounding up a 'fighter for a jaded client with more money than sex appeal who thought Kris gave a shit what either of them thought of him. Because, obviously, this had never ever happened in the history of the Pit.

Kris isn't a virgin. He didn't use the streetwalkers Danny rounded up for them after a good fight. That didn't make him a prude, Kris would fuck when he felt the itch under his skin but he didn't like the dead-eyed whores or the feeling that he was just another john, just like the pricks and fucks who had come before. That wasn't heroism. That was just practical.

This isn't even the first time Kris had been called up to 'service' a big spender. It is the first time in years that he'd been called by a guy but really, Kris doesn't see the big deal. He's a fighter. He's just property. He doesn't get a say in what the 'Boss' wants. What’s the 'Boss's excuse for fucking a guy like Kris? 

Tommy peers sideways at him but Kris keeps his focus on the metal sliding doors. The elevator stops with a jolt that throws Tommy forward. Even with the hobbles, Kris could have caught him. He doesn't. He does keep the smile off his face as Tommy curses and tries to keep his newly bloodied nose from dripping onto his shirt. 

The doors slide open and there are more of the black-clad security guards, spread out in a professional formation. Most of them are watching the elevator but there are guards watching the windows. Kris doesn't look at them. The air is clean and sweetly scented. It feels thin in Kris' chest. There's no fumes, no stink of other people and blood.

Kris' head is spinning as Tommy leads him through a couple of sets of doors with solid steel locks and hinges. There's an almost imperceptible whine of security scans coming from boxes clipped to doorframes. Kris hasn't seen anything like this security before and he's bitterly amused. Another 'high-flyer' who needs to bring his private army out to play in the real world. 

The last set of doors is blocked by four guys big enough to fill the whole corridor. They're grim and dangerous and the hairs along the back of his neck prickle. The silence is heavy, dragging at him as he steps forward. The guys shift, opening up just enough space for Kris to squeeze through on Tommy's heels. The muscle-bound walls close in behind them and actually block some of the light. Kris forcibly relaxes his shoulders. The hobble rattles against the steel rim of his plugs as he moves. 

He's expecting the suit to be like all the others; overweight underneath the carefully choreographed diet and gym plan, with the wheeze that says he's never thrown a real punch in his life. Probably old enough that his hair's been replaced once or twice. 

He's not expecting make-up.

He's not expecting a projection of confidence and power so strong that it sucks the air right out of his lungs.

The first detail that registers is bright blue eyes. Natural eyes, Kris thinks. He hasn't seen a non-Pit person with real eyes since he was ten. There's no logo, no too-perfect pattern but Kris can't look away all the same.

The guy - even in his own head, Kris can't call him a suit - snaps his fingers and Tommy leaves without a word. Kris keeps his eyes on the carpet as the guy approaches, stealing a few quick glances through his eyelashes. Pure black suit, charcoal grey shirt and glittering silver and chrome jewelry on his fingers and at his neck. There are diamond earrings flashing under the perfectly styled black hair. He's good-looking, Kris supposes, in a barely tamed sort of way that makes Kris think of the Pit and the smell of sweat and blood.

Blue Eyes doesn't smell of sweat. As he steps into Kris' personal space, Kris smells cologne and powder and a scent that he can't put words to. The scent of the man underneath. Kris keeps his eyes on the polished black boots. He doesn't say anything. Like his first Boss always told them; suits don't call you up to talk.

Blue Eyes circles him and Kris angles his head to follow the boots with his eyes. He doesn't pull away when Blue Eyes tips his head up but he keeps his eyes on the floor, or at least on the glittering chain mesh around Blue Eyes' wrists.

Kris learnt early how to lie with his body. He'd had to. Being the smallest fighter and the youngest meant learning to tell the bigger, crazier fighters what they wanted to hear. But he'd never completely managed to keep it out of his eyes. It's not a problem. Blue Eyes is good looking but Kris doesn't care enough to want to stare at him. 

He endures having his head tipped back and forth and a finger hooked in the side of his mouth. He doesn't let himself feel the simmering frustration, just keeps his eyes half-closed. Blue Eyes lingers on his mouth so Kris isn't surprised when Blue Eyes steps back and nods to himself. "I want that mouth."

Kris waits for Blue Eyes to lean back against the desk, long fingers working on the buttons of his fly then Kris sinks to his knees. He doesn't like giving blowjobs particularly but it's easy to do. Blue Eyes is bigger than Kris expects but he's languid about it. The last time Kris had blown a suit, the guy hadn't even waited for Kris' knees to hit the carpet. Blue Eyes just leans against the desk, watching Kris mouth at his cock.

He's not sure if he's allowed to use his hands so he keeps them lightly clenched on his thighs and angles his head. Blue Eyes is half-hard, cock silk-soft but flushing darker red as Kris works to get his mouth around it. He has to open his mouth wide just to take Blue Eyes and the guy isn't even halfway hard.

Kris breathes through his nose, angling his head up as Blue Eyes breathes out in a sibilant hiss and his cock presses up against the roof of Kris' mouth. Blue Eyes rocks his hips deliberately and Kris swallows as saliva floods his mouth. Blue Eyes groans and flexes his hips again. Kris catches a brief glimpse of intent blue eyes as he sways back to breathe. Kris lets the natural arc of the sway bring him closer as Blue Eyes thrusts.

There's no finesse. Certainly no poetry. Just the slick slide of cock along his tongue and the ache as his jaw stretched and the stuttering sensation of his throat closing around the head of Blue Eyes' cock. It's about release. Blue Eyes is almost considerate; he pushes deep enough to make Kris' throat work but he's good about pulling back enough for Kris to breathe. He's hard in what feels like no time at all and Kris mostly focuses on keeping his lips tucked over his teeth and his tongue mostly flat. It isn't taxing or anything. Kris would be bored but the back of his neck is prickling.

There's an undertone here that Kris can’t recognize, he feels like he’s being watched. He can't hear any other heartbeats and Blue Eyes groans low and almost inaudible. He's close, Kris notes. Body temp rising almost a full degree, scent thickening with hormones and pulse surging and Kris seals his mouth around Blue Eyes' cock. He inhales through his nose and lets Blue Eyes fuck deeper as he comes. Suits expect you to swallow, his old Boss always said.

The bitterness makes him swallow twice and Kris draws back. He's already thinking about the vile shit the doc's going to pump into him, all the antibiotics and boosters to be sure the new Boss hasn't 'depreciated the asset'. It's all just insurance - who knows who the suit's been fucking? - and even if Kris' immune system is hyper-engineered to survive the blood and bodily fluids exposure of the Pit, there's no point in losing a good fighter to an STI.

The doc isn't even going to pretend she's asking his permission and between the fight and fuck, Kris is too weary to watch himself. So, when he catches movement at the edge of his peripheral, he snaps at it before he can catch himself. He does catch himself before his teeth actually close on Blue Eyes' hand. Already too late.

Blue Eyes jerks his hand back, pupils contracting and brows drawing down and shit. Shitshitshitshit. Kris' hands tighten on his thighs and he feels the surge of electricity a second before the hobble shocks him. It's just a warning, nothing like the pain it'll hit him with if he slips again. He doesn't sway but his muscles lock for a second and Kris doesn't look down fast enough to hide his eyes.

Blue Eyes stares at him, head tilted.

Kris drops his head, baring his neck. The suits like that; textbook submission. The last suit had pulled a knife and gotten off just running the edge of the blade against the side of his neck. Kris had spent the whole thing trying not to laugh. His neck armor is triple-laced ny-Kyvlar and tough enough to stop a monoblade. The store-bought silvered blade wouldn’t even have scratched him. Still, the suits like it when they're in control. They like you pliable, Kris knows. They get off on knowing that you can't fight back.

"Did that actually work for you?" Blue Eyes smiles, all sharp white teeth and brilliance. "Did they really fall for that? Like, at all? Of course, they did."

A statement, not a question.

Kris keeps his eyes down, doesn't move, doesn't breathe out of tempo. Give them nothing, he thinks. Never give them a reaction. He doesn't tense, doesn't do anything to betray himself.

"Clever, clever boy," Blue Eyes cups his chin, rubbing a dry callused thumb across Kris' bruised lips. Kris wets his lips reflexively. Blue Eyes' eyes go dark. "But you don't fool me, baby-boy. You don't get to fake it this time. Not with me."

Kris can't read the silky growl in his voice. He doesn't get the chance to think. Those long fingers press past his lips, deep enough that Kris feels the stretch and the faint echo of an ache in his jaw.

"You're going to beg me to fuck you," Blue Eyes says, leaning in so close that Kris can't look away. "You've going to give me everything I want," his fingers press Kris' tongue to the floor of his mouth, "and you're going to thank me for the privilege."

Kris swallows, feels the pressure of the fingers against his tongue, rough and wet. Blue Eyes sits back against the desk, fingers sliding out of Kris' mouth with a slick pop that feels obscene. He's curled his hand around his cock and Kris swallows again. Blue Eyes is watching him, fingers slick and messy as they tug along his soft cock. 

"Let's try this again," Blue Eyes says, smiling as his free hand curls in Kris' hair, just shy of painful. "But this time, I want your eyes on me all the way through. No hiding those pretty brown eyes."

Kris could - should - break the hold. What’s the point, though? He might even make it two whole steps before the hobbles shocked him hard enough to knock him out. There are still the guards, Tommy and the elevator. Kris can't fight this.

"Don't look so down, baby-boy," Blue Eyes runs his fingers through Kris' hair. "You're going to enjoy yourself. I promise. Now, open that gorgeous mouth for me." 

Kris lets his lips part and Blue Eyes presses his half-hard cock into Kris' mouth. Kris feels the ache starting in his jaw, the way the tension knots his shoulders and curls his lips to cover his teeth. Blue Eyes tugs sharply on his hair when Kris blinks.

"Eyes on me," Blue Eyes says. His tone is crisper this time and Kris swallows. His eyes flutter a little and his breath catches as Kris' throat works. "God, that's good. Good, good boy."

Kris breathes in through his nose and fuck, that was a mistake. Blue Eyes doesn't smell so much of cologne any more, he smells of sweat and sex and the metallic tang of cyber-enhancement and sex. So much sex and pheromones and Jesus, Kris feels light-headed. He sucks at Blue Eyes' cock, eyes flickering towards the ground only to be pulled back with a sharp yank every time Blue Eyes notices.

"Use your tongue," Blue Eyes orders, groaning a little as Kris stares up at him. "Come on, baby. Come on." 

There isn't room in Kris' mouth. Blue Eyes is too big, too hard. There isn't room for Kris' tongue to move with all that flesh and heat and _scent_ filling his whole world. Kris can barely breathe as it is. He doesn't know what to do with his tongue. No-one's ever wanted him to do anything but be there and let himself be used. His tongue feels too heavy, too clumsy but Blue Eyes hisses when Kris' tongue rubs against the throb of his pulse and drags along it.

"Fuck," Blue Eyes swears like Kris is a goddamn revelation, half-awed and the pheromone release makes Kris shiver, eyes closing without his permission. Blue Eyes shakes his hand, jerking Kris off balance and there's a second, just one, where Blue Eyes' cock slides so deep that Kris' throat closes in a panic and he tries to gulp down air that just isn't there. His heart-rate spikes, a jagged red line flashing across his inner optic display. 

Blue Eyes lets him pull back, just enough to breathe before his grip on Kris' hair tightens again.

"Eyes. On. Me," Blue Eyes growls. "Look at _me_ , baby. Look at how good you're making me feel." 

Kris looks up and is caught, held helpless in the steady, hungry blue eyes that are staring down at him. Blue Eyes loosens his grip, fingers petting through Kris' hair as he works his tongue clumsily against the underside of Blue Eyes' cock. Blue Eyes runs a thumb along the line of Kris' cheekbone, brushing a knuckle into the dip of Kris' cheek where he's stretched so taut that he feels like he's going to snap. 

"Such a mouth," Blue Eyes breathes and the moment is too intimate, too obscene. Kris can't listen to him talking like that while Blue Eyes is looking him straight in the goddamn eye! "So fucking good for me, baby. So-, so good." 

His voice hitches as Kris' tongue rubs against the swollen head, rough against that magic spot underneath. Blue Eyes tips his head back, moaning like a porn-star and Kris is so wrapped up in the moment that he doesn't even think to look away.

"Gonna-" Blue Eyes thrusts up, cock slipping too deep even as his grip tightens to keep Kris in place. Kris grabs for the desk, struggling to breathe as Blue Eyes fucks his mouth. "Oh yeah. Fuck. Fucking love your mouth." 

He pulls back, just enough that he shoots in Kris' mouth, not down his throat. Kris has to swallow, the bitter/salt taste of Blue Eyes thick along his tongue. Blue Eyes works his hips a few times, thrusting shallowly into Kris' mouth as he comes. Kris hangs onto the desk and tries not to suffocate.

"Such a good boy," Blue Eyes is breathless. He doesn't pull out of Kris' mouth, just pets his cheek with a sticky hand. "Such a good boy for me." 

Kris wants to growl but his jaw aches, his tongue feels raw from the texture of Blue Eyes' cock and he thinks he's got bruises on the back of his throat. More than that, he feels feverish; so hot that he's almost boiling in his own skin. The fretful, pre-fight energy is jittering through his veins. Kris wants someone he can punch and bite and kick until he's too exhausted to move and his muscles burn with the effort of breathing. He wants to fight, to run, to climb or just to pound the shit out of the heavy bag until his knuckles bleed.

He's hard.

Kris isn't a eunuch - he gets semi-hard from a hundred different things; wrestling with the guys, jacking off in the shower and the occasional fumbling hand job after lights out. He doesn't get hard from a suit fucking his mouth. He doesn't get turned on like this. His jeans feel too tight, clingy with sweat and Kris knows that the back of his shirt is sticking to his back because he feels it with every breath he struggles to take.

Blue Eyes cants his hip, cock dragging across Kris' lower lip as he does. He's still breathing in sharp, staccato breaths. He's pink across the cheeks, sweat glistening along his hairline. He's still got a hand fisted in Kris' hair and a cat-got-the-cream smirk curving his lips.

"A plus for effort, baby-boy," he croons. "But that's just the warm up." 

He lets Kris go and Kris sways, almost falling before he catches himself on the edge of desk. His whole mouth feels tender and the air is shockingly cool as he gulps in a breath and sees his heat-rate fall into the low amber. Blue Eyes is still watching him, leaning back on the desk with his dick hanging out and still looking like king of the goddamn urban jungle.

"Caught your breath?" He doesn't give Kris a chance to answer. "Good. Lose the clothes, baby. Let me see what I'm getting." 

Kris gets to his feet slowly. He's got pins and needles all down his legs and his left foot has gone to sleep. He's aware of the sweat and dirt and he feels scruffy and underdressed, hyperaware of the contrast between his worn denim and kev-cotton and Blue Eyes' perfectly tailored suit. He rotates his shoulder, more to distract from the uncomfortable tightness where his cock still hasn't got the memo about suits and how they're not for fucking or jacking off to. 

It's kind of hard to miss and Blue Eyes glances down, smirking wider as Kris' fists clench impotently around thin air.

"Aw, is that for me?" Blue Eyes cups him, long fingers curling behind Kris' balls and Kris goes still. "I'm flattered, really."

Kris can't help the snarl that claws up from his chest and Blue Eyes smirks. 

"You're still dressed, baby-boy. You should really fix that." 

Kris seriously considers leaving his goddamn clothes on but Blue Eyes' expression is hardening and he feels the warning tingle from the hobble. He slaps at the catches on his boots, toeing them off slower than he normally does. His t-shirt is still spattered with Monte's blood and a whole shade darker from Kris' sweat. It clings to his back as he pulls it off.

Blue Eyes whistles in mocking admiration, reaching out to tweak a nipple. Kris twitches back and Blue Eyes smiles, cool and greedy.

"So buff," he flicks a finger against Kris' pec. "I do like my boys with a bit of muscle." 

Kris glares but Blue Eyes just looks expectantly at his fly. The buttons feel tiny and slippery-slick in Kris' fingers and he has to focus fiercely just to keep his hands from shaking. He isn't wearing underwear - it unseats the cup and Kris would rather do an extra load of laundry than get his balls mauled - but he wishes he was.

There's nothing to hide his cock with as he pushes his pants down and steps out of them. He keeps his chin up, defiant and so goddamn nervous that he thinks his heart's going to explode. Blue Eyes takes him in with a long, slow sweep of his eyes. Kris has to bite back the fleeting wish that he could cover his scars. He's never been ashamed of his body or the corrugated patches of skin and flesh.

Blue Eyes stands and fuck, he's tall. The dark suit blends too well into the shadows that fill the room. He feels colossal, towering over Kris and Kris' lips curl back in a reflexive snarl before his brain kicks in. Blue Eyes smiles but it doesn't reach his intense eyes.

"Still not broken? Good," he turns to fumble for something on the desk. "I like your spirit, baby. That doesn't mean you get to set the pace. You're here for my pleasure and if you keep forgetting?"

He's holding a small leather loop with stainless steel buckles and Kris frowns. It's too small to be a cuff. Blue Eyes catches Kris’ cock in one hand, snapping the loop around the base with the other. Kris freezes for a crucial second and Blue Eyes tugs something and fuck, that's fucking tight! Kris clamps his legs together, too late.

"Such a good boy," Blue Eyes fondles his cock and shit, that just makes it worse. Kris can feel every beat of his heart straining against the leather and he whimpers. "Shush, poor baby." 

He runs his fingers along Kris' cock, feather light and Kris swallows another moan. "You look so good in leather, baby. I might just keep you like this. So pretty like this. So desperate."

He hisses the last word and Kris shudders. Blue Eyes closes his hand around Kris' cock, almost painfully tight. Kris' eyes roll back in his head and Blue Eyes laughs, a rich, satisfied sound that raises goosebumps along Kris' spine.

"So pretty," he breathes. "Fuck, baby, even your cock is pretty." 

Kris can feel the embarrassed burn across his cheeks and ducks his head, gazing dropping to the floor. He can't even snarl. There isn't any warning; the slap jerks his head to one side. Blue Eyes tsks in his ear.

"And you were doing so good, baby." Blue Eyes spins him to face the desk, pushing him forward with a hand between his shoulder blades so Kris has to catch himself with hands flat of the desk. "Don't move." 

Kris freezes again. There's a threatening note threaded through Blue Eyes' voice that makes the feral part of him - the one that's kept him alive for all these years - go still and small. Blue Eyes isn't requesting this. He isn't ordering it. He's telling Kris right now that this is how it's going to be.

Kris is so hard that he can't think past the pain of his cock. He drops his head, panting harsh and fast into the claustrophobic space between Blue Eyes’ chest and the smooth wood of the desk. Blue Eyes crowds up behind him. Kris can feel the guy’s cock, mostly soft, against his ass. Blue Eyes snakes a hand around Kris’ cock, jacking him hard and rough.

Kris isn't wet enough to be slick. Blue Eyes' hand feels cool and dry and it hurts even as Kris moans and fights the urge to rut into the brutal rhythm. 

"You don't move," Blue Eyes hisses in his ear. "You don't get to take anything but what I want to give you. Understand?" 

Kris moans and Blue Eyes squeezes, just enough to underline the threat.

"Understand?" he growls again.

Kris nods, head bobbing like his neck's made of rubber. He hasn't ever been this hard, hasn't ever needed to come so badly that he can't breathe, can't think - only feel the overload of sensation. Blue Eyes is a heavy weight, pressing him down and only Kris' braced arms are keeping them up. Blue Eyes tightens his grip.

"Tell me," he pants in Kris' ear.

Kris whines, throwing his head back and gasping for air. His hips are moving and he can't remember how to make them stop. He wants-! He needs-!

"Tell me yes," Blue Eyes' voice rasps like raw silk and Kris shivers. He's sweating, palms slippery against the wood and he's conscious of the heavy heat of the man at his back. "Tell me yes, baby."

"Yes," Kris pants. "Yesyesyesyesyesyesyesyes-" 

He chokes on the air as Blue Eyes cups his balls and leans up and back. He's panting so hard that his whole body shakes with it. Blue Eyes presses a long finger just behind his balls and Kris keens and chokes.

"Please," Kris begs. The word explodes from him and his elbows buckle, slamming into the desk and Blue Eyes leaves stinging scratches in the shape of his nails along Kris' hip. "Please, please." 

He doesn't even know what he's begging for but Blue Eyes strokes his cock in sure, steady sweeps and croons in his ear, praise and pride making Kris burn with shame and need. He's rocking with the force of his _want_ and Blue Eyes just keeps touching him and working him hotter and higher until Kris is sure that he's going to shake apart.

"Good," Blue Eyes is whispering. "Good boy. Good, good, _good_ boy. My clever boy."

He's fumbling against the underside of Kris' cock and something goes with a snap and the terrible constriction and the pain that melded and fused with the pleasure releases in one super-nova rush that blows Kris apart at the seams. He buries his scream in the crook of his elbow, biting down with blunt, safe teeth into the meat of the muscle and shakes.

It goes on forever and Kris slumps against the desk, all his muscles going lax and useless. He feels too heavy, like his bones are crushing him to death and he's shaking like he’s wired into the mains and gulping and wheezing like he did after his very first fight. There are hands on his flanks and on his back, stroking and soothing and Blue Eyes' voice is a low whisper of sound just on the edge of Kris' understanding. 

Kris expects Blue Eyes to fuck him. He's even sort of grateful for the orgasm that's left him slack and as open as he can get. It might not hurt so bad like this. It's going to hurt. Kris knows how big Blue Eyes is, knows it intimately and he isn't- ...it's not going to fit. Not without hurting. He knows that.

Blue Eyes doesn't do anything like that. He doesn't grab Kris' hips and slam into him. He pets Kris and croons and lets him breathe. Kris is sticky and as the fever-heat fades, there's a chill creeping in that makes him shake. Fingers scratch lightly down along his back, skipping over the old barcodes.

"Lot of tags," Blue Eyes says, so softly that Kris almost doesn't hear him.

Kris grunts into his elbow. He knows. He hates them. Mostly, he hates them. Sometimes, he thinks of them as trophies. He's going to need a new one. Another new owner and by the end of the week, Kris’ll have been in the Pits for half his life. His old Bosses might not have given a shit about legal age but they kept his tags up to date.

"Just a kid," Blue Eyes breathes, mostly to himself, and Kris snorts. 

The mood changes. Blue Eyes trails his fingers over Kris’ back one last time and slips a hand under Kris, cradling his cock with care. He works Kris carefully, enough to make Kris roll his shoulders and grumble as the first tickle of heat starts to pool in his groin. He's already equalizing, toxin-binders filtering out the vasopressin and prolactin and clearing his head.

Blue Eyes jacks him slow and tender so Kris is most of the way to hard before he can co-ordinate his wobbly arms. He's still sensitive, rolling his hips a little as Blue Eyes coaxes him ever harder. He can see himself, pale and small, reflected in the shuttered window behind the desk. Blue Eyes is staring back and Kris has to fight the urge to look away.

"So good for me," Blue Eyes says low and pleased. It's all dark tone and sultry lilt and Kris shivers a little. "Such a good boy. I'm going to give you a reward." 

Kris tenses as Blue Eyes leans in closer. Kris can feel the silk-rough weave of his suit rubbing against Kris' bare back and the steady heat. Blue Eyes is hard. All the way hard and the whole length of him is pressing insistently against Kris' ass. He swallows, nails scratching against the desk as his hands tighten into fists. 

"My name is Adam," Blue Eyes tells him in smoky whisper that sends a ripple down the whole of Kris' spine. "Remember that name, baby. You’re going to be screaming it in a few minutes." 

Kris tries to scoff but Blue- _Adam_ twists his hand on the down stroke and Kris' whole body quakes. He can't get his vocal cords working and it's so much work just to keep his head up. Adam laughs and leans into Kris, reaching for a tube on the desk and uncapping it with a practiced flip of his thumb. 

Kris whines, rocking back when Adam lets go of his cock.

"So needy," Adam purrs. "Hang in there, baby." 

Something cool and sloppy drips into the curve of his back and Kris arches, hissing in a breath. Adam chuckles and his nails scrape the dip of Kris' spine as he swipes his fingers through the slick. One hand settles on Kris' hip, gripping hard enough that Kris is going to have bruises until the hobbles get disconnected and his nanosurgeons can handle it.

Adam pulls him back a little, knocking his legs apart with a well-placed knee and pushing him down with a hand planted between his shoulder blades. Kris feels dread like a cold bolt of lightning. He starts to push himself up.

And Adam flicks the hobbles with a casual finger and Kris howls. The snap-crackle of electricity surges through his nervous system in a rapid series of waves that leave him thrashing and fighting his own body to move. He hates this. Hates it, hates it, _HATES it_. He snaps and bites and if he could make his arms move, he'd be punching.

Adam holds him in place, one hand between his shoulder-blades and one on his hip. Kris might as well try to shift the massive girders that frame the Pit. He fights, screams soundlessly as the pulses thrash him back and forth under Adam's relentless grip. He's going to have more bruises. Kris can feel them like pain pooling under his skin but he can't stop fighting and the hobbles keep pumping electricity into him. 

Kris fights and Kris loses. 

It's a hard fight and he puts everything he can spare into it and he still loses. He ends up panting into his crossed arms, half-crying while Adam's big hands pin him down and he gasps, sobbing with the exhaustion and the frustration and fuck his life. Fuck his life so hard. 

There's blood on the wood. Kris can smell it, the coppery reek that drowns out the whole thing and he pants into the damp, slippery wood and blinks. His eyes sting and fuck, fuck. Kris is not crying in front of this asshole. He's not going to be broken like this.

But he is.

Adam doesn't let him up. The hobble doesn't stop. Kris doesn't have the energy to fight back and finally Kris just lets himself go limp. He's still breathing in angry, stuttered gulps but the hobble cuts out, leaving just the aftershock skittering through his muscles and nervous system. Kris squeezes his eyes shut and tells himself fiercely that he's not going to cry.

He can save himself that much of his dignity.

He can't stop the flinch when a warm mouth brushes his temple and Adam's hands are sliding down to pin his wrists to the desk. Kris keeps his hands tightly clenched. He can handle Adam holding him down. This is dominance dressed up in sex. Fine. Adam can have him as he is.

Kris isn't prepared for Adam to kiss his cheek, lips brushing Kris' furrowed skin until Kris un-tenses. He's still hard, still pressed up against Kris' ass and Jesus, Kris can't help the sick clench of his belly at the thought of how much this going to hurt. His fingers are slick, slippery around Kris' wrist and Kris can feel how his pulse hammers against Adam's fingertips.

"Shhh," Adam whispers into his skin. "Sh, that's it. Easy, baby. Don't fight it. I'm going to make you feel so good." 

Kris' jaw is clenched so tight that he thinks his teeth are going to crack and splinter. He shakes his head.

"Oh yes," Adam insists. "Baby, I am going to blow your mind...."

He kisses the side of Kris' mouth, rough and demanding. Kris' lips go slack and Adam lets go of his wrists and angles his head so he's kissing Kris deep and possessive and Kris was a kid, the last time he'd been kissed. It had been clumsy and awkward and god, Kris can't think past the languid roll of Adam's tongue.

He doesn't hear the lube open but there's a finger pressing against him. Kris closes his eyes and Adam bites his lip. It's a tiny pain but it snaps Kris' eyes open.

"Eyes on me, baby," Adam reminds.

Kris breathes in, sucking the blood off his lip and doesn't look away. The finger feels huge as it presses into him. Kris is already bracing himself when Adam kisses him again. It's a distraction - not enough that Kris can't feel every millimeter as Adam works his finger deeper. It doesn't hurt exactly, the stretch is only uncomfortable at first. 

Kris is already broken open. Adam is thorough, almost clinical as he works Kris open even farther. Kris tries to will himself to relax. He's never really managed the trick of it; even when the suits had him drugged, some part of Kris clenched down tight.

But Adam keeps kissing him, forcing Kris' attention back to the kiss as more fingers are added and the stretch comes closer to pain. Adam's free hand has worked its way under Kris again and is toying with his cock and Kris is getting hard. He twitches his hips back, pulling away but that just forces Adam's fingers deeper and they brush his prostate. Kris jolts, hard.

It's like the hobbles but not because this doesn't hurt, doesn't sting and Kris would pull away if he could. He can feel Adam's smile against his lips, Adam's tongue pressing deeper with every flick of those clever, clever fingers as Kris' body shivers and shudders under him. Kris can't keep his eyes open, can't handle looking in Adam's eyes while his tongue traces patterns along the roof of Kris' mouth and his fingers work Kris' prostate and cock mercilessly.

Adam breaks the kiss and Kris' eyes fly open as Adam pulls back, letting go of Kris' cock to seize his hip instead. Kris curses in a high-pitched squawk as Adam flips him over like he's a piece of paper and his fingers cork-screw inside Kris and Adam pushes him back against the desk. He curls his fingers around Kris' cock again, impatient and rough and god, no. Please, Kris begs of the God he knows can't actually exist, please no. 

Sprawled out, legs hanging off the edge of desk, there's no way to hide anything from those burning blue eyes. Adam can see - can read - every needy twitch that Kris can't stifle and a smile spreads those bruised lips. All Kris can see is Adam, immaculate suit rumpled and inky hair clinging to his forehead as he presses three fingers so deep into Kris that Kris can't- they won't fit! Can't fit but Adam is kissing him again, stealing Kris' breath one whisper at a time. 

Kris can feel his muscles stretching, slow and reluctant but Adam won't be denied, won't let Kris fight him. Kris can feel the crackle of arousal, like the promise of thunder on a hot summer night and Adam bites at his lip. He isn't tugging Kris' cock, fingers circling the base and squeezing and the high, panicky sound that escapes Kris' too-tight chest would be embarrassing if Kris could spare any thought for it.

"So perfect," Adam is breathing, fast and heavy against Kris' ear. "Look at you, baby. So needy, so desperate." 

Kris tries to turn his face, tries even now to hide the embarrassed flush but Adam's fingers jab harshly against his prostate and the sparks floating across Kris' vision go supernova. He can't breathe, can't see and he's clawing at Adam's shoulder, fingers skidding across the slick fabric as Kris tries to keep from rattling apart.

"Ah-Adam!" Kris gasps, panting in jittery gulps as Adam's fingers tap against his prostate. "Please! Pleaseplease!" 

Adam kisses him, licks the desperation from the back of his throat and his fingers pull out. Kris' hips twitch after them and Adam's laughter tastes of smoke and sweat and blood. Kris' shoulders slump but even shame can't keep him from arching up as Adam hooks Kris' knees with his elbows and lets go of his cock. Kris can feel the strain in his spine as Adam bends him in half; feels the ache of the bruises and the uneven texture of the desk.

Adam catches Kris' face in one hand, holding him in place as Adam's cock nudges at Kris where's he's slick and achingly empty. Kris can't even force himself to breathe, caught on the knife-edge between need and the cold dread of pain. He hates the way it feels, the tearing, white-hot pain that leaves him feeling ripped in two.

He must wince or tense when Adam presses against him with intent because Adam kisses him, teeth scraping along his lower lip, demanding and possessive. Kris stares into Adam's eyes and braces as Adam's cock presses in. There's a moment when Kris' mind fills with mindless, breathless panic. It's not going to fit. It can't fit. Adam holds his face in both hands, kissing him as he presses in.

Adam's cock is thicker than his fingers, hotter and Kris' over-stretched muscles quiver as Adam fills him, agonizingly slow and taking up every inch of space. He doesn't stop, doesn't slow or just slam his hips forward. He doesn't blink, doesn't look away for even a millisecond as Kris breaks the kiss to suck in a belated lungful of breath. He keeps his hands on Kris' face and Kris shakes. It's too much, too intense-

"Mine," Adam enunciates the word. He sounds ravaged. "Relax baby, you can take me. Deep breaths." 

Kris is panting, mouth dry and hands scrabbling uselessly on the desk as Adam slides deeper and deeper.

"That's it," Adam encourages. "Knew you could take it. Take it all, pretty baby." 

Kris' lips curl into a snarl and Adam laughs, a deep vibration that makes him shift inside Kris and Kris yelps, jerking in place as Adam drags his cock against Kris' prostate. Adam isn't laughing anymore. He's breathing deep and slow and he's pushing deeper and deeper.

"Going to fuck you so good," Adam promises. "So deep, you'll never want me to leave."

Kris breathes out, ragged and frightened when he feels the cool line of Adam's zip against his ass and Adam's eyes close for a beat. Kris can feel his heart pounding against his ribs, feel Adam's echoing pulse where he's stretched tight around Adam's cock. Kris has to- he can't process, can't think past the unbearable fullness. There doesn't feel like there's enough room for air in his lungs.

Adam is still holding his face, bruisingly tight and Kris is panting in time with him. There's no space for secrets, no way to hide anything from the laser-sharp gaze searing into him. Adam's face is blank but his eyes - Kris feels like he's on fire, burning with the heat and the intensity. Adam lets him breathe just long enough to come off the dizzy edge and then he starts to move.

He starts in tiny, careful motions, less than half an inch but bumping Kris' prostate with every hitch of his hips and never looking away. Kris doesn't have the leverage to move; his hands manage to close around the edge of the desk and he clings on tight. Adam doesn't stop, doesn't slow and just keeps fucking him.

Kris can feel the rush of blood to his cock, trapped and neglected between them. He makes an uncertain sound deep in his throat. He doesn't want to feel this; can't handle the flicker-flash of heat that's making him harder with every breath and the steady rhythm of Adam's cock inside him both. Adam leans a fraction of an inch closer, just enough that their lips brush every time Adam fucks into him. Kris blinks rapidly, watching the multi-colored light show as his bio-monitors go nuts. The hobble is a distant rattle as Adam's thrusts get more urgent, pushing deeper and harder.

"You're going to come," Adam says. It could be conversational if they weren't breathing each other's air and Kris couldn't feel every inch of Adam's cock as he pushes in and the coarse hair brushing Kris' rim. "Just like this, baby. I'mma make you lose your mind." 

Kris believes him.

"Let go," Adam breathes, grunting a little as he fucks Kris incrementally harder. "Just let yourself feel. Just let go." 

Kris licks at dry lips with a tongue that feels like sandpaper. He doesn't know how to do this; how to be this person without the armor and mindset of the Pit. He stares into the blue of Adam's eyes, both of them breathing in urgent, punchy breaths. It feels like the warm-up, the way the kata flows when you're warmed-up and loose, a steadily building volcano inside Kris' chest where he can't swallow it down. 

He can't get a hand between them to his cock, can't do anything but feel the sway of it as Adam fucks him and his cock presses against the electrifying place inside him that steals Kris' breath and makes him want to beg and plead.

He can feel his skin pulling taut, eyes rolling back in his head as he moans. Adam's fucking him in short sharp thrusts, nailing his prostate every time. Kris can't make his mouth work, can't remember how to breathe and still, Adam is staring into his eyes. There's so much there, all the micro-expressions that Kris can't read and the greedy, gloating pride that shines through loud and clear.

Just as Kris feels his mind starting to unravel, Adam starts to _talk_.

"So good for me. So open. Fuck-" he bites the word off and Kris groans, body clenching as the first rippling promise of pleasure liquefies his spine. "Look at you. So beautiful, so perfect. Going to fuck you, going to keep you." 

There's more, filthy praises and bittersweet encouragement but Kris is already moaning, a thread of sound from his solar plexus up. He's shaking, whole body moving in time to Adam's rhythm and he's close, so close he can taste it and he wants-! He needs-!

Adam is looking him straight in the eye and his voice is gravel-rough. "Mine."

And Kris comes apart with a howl in the shape of Adam's name, with Adam's hands bruisingly tight on his face and Adam's cock pulsing in his ass and Adam's blue, blue eyes fixed on his face.

And Kris comes harder than he's ever come in his life.

Afterwards, when Kris is limp and wrung out and even opening his eyes is too much to ask, Adam dresses him again. Kris has lost chunks of time. He’s cold now, skin tacky and muscles aching and slack. Kris mumbles sleepily as Adam works his jeans over his hips and is rewarded with an amused huff of air.

"So demanding," Adam whispers. 

He doesn't put Kris' shirt on. But as Kris starts trying to fight his way back to consciousness, Adam gathers him up and Kris feels strong thighs under his legs and fingers combing through his hair. He’s leaning into something warm and he can feel the exhaustion dragging him down. He can't think; there's only the vague sense that this isn't how this is supposed to go. He needs to get up. He needs to go to the doc. He needs to eat. He needs to take the nano-binders that will heal the cracked bones so he can fight. He needs-

"You need to sleep," Adam's voice is soft and rich but there's a humming undertone of command.

The nagging voices go quiet as Adam’s fingers stroke through his hair. Kris is asleep in seconds.


End file.
